But is it Art?
by JenF
Summary: Investigating the death of a local artist, Sam and Dean discover she had more than a passing interest in Sam. What were her motives and what will it mean for our boys?
1. Chapter 1

A/N - The Winchester boys are not mine, anyone you recognise is not mine, anyone you don't recognise - chance's are they're mine. Set sometime in Season One because I still haven't accepted that John's gone.

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**But is it Art?**

It was the sight of blood that got to him first. The dark crimson stain behind her head, seeping slowly under the door and trailing down the stairs, had a perverse elegance about it that turned Sam's stomach. The pattern it made wouldn't have looked out of place in her latest collection. He raised a hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to suppress the gag reflex as he wondered at the vitriol required to commit such an act against a helpless woman. He silently cursed his brother once again for lagging behind. This barbarism was something he would never understand.

Before his brain could process the sight fully, his nasal passages were assaulted by the stench that had hitherto eluded him. The aroma of turpentine and oil paints was to be expected, after all they were the tools of her trade. The scent of rotting flesh, blood and bodily fluids was definitely out of place in the studio. His roiling stomach protested more vigorously and Sam found himself bolting from the loft apartment in search of fresh air.

Standing on the stairs, two flights down, examining the blood pattern, Dean was surprised to see his brother hunched over himself outside the door, hand over mouth, face pale and swaying ever so slightly. He knew that Sam wasn't a girl when it came to crime scenes, so whatever was behind the door must have been gruesome, to say the least. He abandoned his scrutiny and bounded up the stairs to Sam, resting a hand gently on his back, moving it in small, comforting circles as Sam tried to regain his composure.

"Hey, you alright?" It was a pretty academic question. Sam was quite clearly not alright but the Winchesters had always defined 'alright' in their own unique way. 'Okay' would quite often mean 'leg hanging off, barely clinging to consciousness' to the brothers.

Sam grunted and waved a hand in Dean's general direction. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up to his full height and sheepishly looked at his older brother.

"Just took me by surprise, that's all," he admitted.

Dean glared at the door as though it was fully to blame for Sam's current condition. Reaching out to it with one hand, he glanced back only once to check Sam was following him. As his hand made contact with the cool metal handle he felt a chill run through him. He couldn't help the involuntary shiver that coursed through his body. Dismissing the occurrence as a freak draught, he turned the handle and cautiously pushed it open.

The smell that had sent Sam reeling was all pervasive in the air and Dean could understand why Sam had made a hasty exit from the room. They had been brought up on a diet of bad food, bad hotels and bad smells, but this rated highly even on the Winchester scale of tolerability.

Elaine's paintings, completed and in progress, lay scattered on the studio floor. Her sculptures had been shattered into a thousand pieces and wet clay had been smeared on the walls and over workbenches. The destruction in the room was total and complete. If the aim of the game had been total annihilation then Elaine had lost big time.

Elaine herself was lying, crumpled, below the large window looking over the park. She'd told Sam the reason she took the apartment was the light and the views from the main room which she had converted into a studio herself. The cause of death was quite clearly a head wound, violent and wicked. Blood was still oozing sluggishly through her hair and onto the floor where it joined the existing pool. She hadn't been dead long, as Dean ascertained when he slipped a hand along her throat in a futile exercise to find a pulse. She was still warm and he half expected her to open her eyes, jump up and yell 'Gotcha!'.

Lifting his head from where he was crouched beside the body, Dean cast a wary eye around the room. Although he trusted Sam to have already scoped out any possible remaining danger, it was too well ingrained to keep his little brother safe. Happy that they were indeed alone, he straightened his knees, raising himself up off the floor.

"Whoever did this hasn't been gone long," he observed, absentmindedly wiping his hands on his ripped jeans.

"Or whatever," Sam returned, with a disgusted look marring his face. He joined Dean by Elaine's corpse and looked sadly down at her. "She didn't deserve this, Dean."

"Nobody ever does, Sam." It was little comfort but in their line of work comfort was a luxury rarely afforded.

Sam knelt down, carefully avoiding the spilled blood, and gently turned Elaine's head to the side. The back of her head was a mess of blood and grey matter. It looked to all the world as if she had been shot at close range but there was no evidence of an entry point. To all intents and purposes, the back of her head had simply exploded.

"This doesn't make sense. What would cause this type of injury?" If Sam was looking to Dean for answers, he would be waiting a long time. His brother had turned away and was idly picking up tubes and brushes, squirting paint onto palettes and running the fibres of the brushes through the blobs, making swirling patterns.

"Why make all this mess? What were they looking for?" he asked, spinning round suddenly, his eyes dark and angry. "It's all so… so messy."

"I don't think tidiness was high on the list of priorities here." Sam theorised, gently running his hand through the dead woman's hair, brushing it off her forehead in a subconscious imitation of a lover's caress. Dean cast a sidelong look at the younger man, a flash of concern crossing his face and then gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Sam," he paused, unsure of what he was going to say. Sam had become a little too involved with this one. Ever the professional, or pessimist depending on who's opinion was being voiced, he had kept his distance, maintaining an easy, yet outwardly aloof relationship with Elaine. Dean thought he might have wanted to stay on awhile after they had wrapped up the job but it was all academic now. Sam threw a quizzical glance up at Dean and seemed to realise where he was. He abruptly rose, suddenly all business.

"We need to wipe down and get out of here. Someone's bound to have heard something."

"Yeah." It was all Dean could do to agree as, in the distance, they both heard the faint wail of sirens cutting through the night air. Unseen by his brother, he surreptitiously pocketed a sheet of paper.

A swift two minutes of activity wiped the apartment clean of any evidence the Winchesters had ever been there and the reassuring roar of the Impala drowned out the sirens. The first flashing lights were screaming to a halt outside the apartment block as the tail lights of the classic car turned a corner and disappeared.

The bar was a typical out of town affair. It had its share of regulars, drunkards mostly by the looks of it, a higher than expected number of bikers and a fair few business men out to forget the rigours of the day. The table in the corner that Sam and Dean had occupied afforded them a clear view of the entrance and also the door to the rest rooms. It never hurt to have all your entrances and exits covered. Sam was steadfastly nursing the same beer that Dean had bought upon arrival nearly an hour ago. He twisted his hands around the glass, no longer cold, and swirled the amber liquid higher and higher to the lip of the glass. Dean was on his second beer, not wanting to get too far ahead of Sam, but unable to maintain the same slow pace.

After a long silence he sighed and slipped a hand into his pocket. He withdrew the paper he had appropriated from Elaine's place and slid it over the table to Sam, careful to avoid the dubious stains littering the surface. Sam raised his head and tilting it to one side eyed Dean curiously.

"What's that?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "I picked it up earlier. Thought you might be able to make something of it." In all honesty, Dean had read through the contents as soon as they had returned to the motel but it made no sense to him at all. He was happy to defer matters such as this to his brother, content to let the supersized brain his brother seemed to possess work it's magic on the cryptic message scrawled in black ink across the page.

Sam moved a hand cautiously forward, seemingly uncertain whether to touch the paper or not. He gently rested a finger on top of the sheet, tapping it softly while eyeing it suspiciously. After what seemed like an eternity to Dean, he picked it up and unfolded it. Laying it on the table in front of him he let his eyes wander over the writing. He creased his brow in concentration, rubbing his thumb along his eyebrows. Finally he looked up and shook his head.

"I don't get it," he confessed, "it's just numbers and letters. It doesn't mean anything."

Dean sat back in his chair, surveying the crowd, disheartened that Sam could make no more sense of it that he'd been able to.

"It must mean something," he insisted. "Why would Elaine have hidden it, otherwise?"

"Hidden? You think this is why she was killed?" Sam enquired. "Dean? Where exactly did you find this? It wasn't just lying around, was it?"

Dean shook his head but was uncharacteristically reluctant to admit to where he had found it.

"It doesn't matter, Sammy. Point is, I found it somewhere Elaine obviously thought was a good hiding place, so it must be important." His refusal to look Sam in the eye though was as good as blasting a fog horn in Sam's ear.

"Dean. Where did you find this?" He waved the piece of paper in Dean's face to emphasise his point. Wherever it had been, it had been thoroughly hidden and part of him really didn't want to know where Dean had been poking around to find it.

Just as the silence between the two began to grow uncomfortable, Dean shifted slightly in his seat and, pointedly not looking at Sam, confessed, "It was in her shirt."

"What?! What the hell where you doing in her shirt, Dean?"

"I saw it poking out of her bra when I checked for a pulse."

"Oh my god." Sam sank back into his seat as far as he could, shaking his head. " I cannot believe you."

"Oh c'mon, Sammy. Give me some credit. I wasn't looking down there deliberately. I just glanced down and there it was. I'm not some pervert who gets his kicks out of feeling up dead bodies." Dean's pleading voice had unwittingly risen till he could be heard at the table next to them. Ignoring the disgusted glances of the patrons sitting around them, Dean fixed his gaze on Sam, willing him to believe what he'd been told. Sam huffed and, still shaking his head, stuffed the refolded paper into his jacket pocket and stood up. He spared a final look for his brother and left the bar in a flurry of righteous indignation.

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TBC - reviews are loved.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Dean got back to the motel, Sam had showered and was propped up on his bed, laptop out on his knees, tapping away. Dean slunk through the door, unsure what reception he would get from his pissed off little brother. Sam acknowledged him with a grunt that could have meant 'don't even think about talking to me' or 'I'm sorry I overreacted'. Taking his chances that it was the latter, Dean perched himself on the edge of his own bed, wary of interrupting but unable to bear the atmosphere in the room.

"Did you find anything?" He waved at the computer and raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a conciliatory manner. Sam took a deep breath.

"It was part of her catalogue. She listed every piece of work she ever did, when she did it, what it was, who she sold it to. I think she ripped it out of a journal. You can see where the ink has smudged from the previous page." He paused and then looked up at Dean. "I don't think you're a pervert, Dean. I just wasn't expecting that answer." He shrugged and turned back to the laptop, absolution given, work to be done.

Dean released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and smirked.

"I know, Sammy."

Accepting the olive branch he'd been offered, Dean leant back, kicking off his boots and scooting up the bed till his position mirrored that of his brother's. Stretching his arms above his head and working out the kinks in his back and neck, he relaxed slowly into the relative comfort of the bed.

"So," he began, "how is this catalogue going to help us?"

"I'm not sure yet." Sam admitted, "but I'm sure the answer is in there somewhere. Elaine kept meticulous records but she was a very private person. Whatever's special about this page, I'm betting she put in code."

"Oh great. A bit of code breaking before bed. It's what I live for," Dean grumbled. "Do you have anything to go on?"

Sam shook his head. "But I think the numbers are more important than the letters."

"Okay, well, you go do your Enigma thing. I'm gonna hit the shower and then get some sleep." Dean paused to study his brother. He looked exhausted but driven. "Don't stay up all night."

Morning brought the sunlight peeking through the blinds of the motel windows far too early for Dean's liking. He groaned and rolled over, trying to extend his sleep for just a little longer. It was to no avail however and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee was like a shot of adrenalin to his system. Blinking through the harsh light he realised that the blinds had been opened. Cursing softly under his breath, he sought out the coffee he knew from experience would be sitting on the bedside table. As the hot liquid burned its way down his throat he looked for Sam. He found him sitting at the small table, feet propped up on the chair opposite him, reading the local newspaper. Scattered across the table were various art magazines and auction house catalogues.

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?" Dean enquired, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. Sam jumped slightly and studiously ignored the question.

"Was wondering if you were going to wake up today. We need to go back to Elaine's."

"Good morning to you too," Dean snarked. Morning conversations had never been his strong point and he liked to be eased into the day as gently as possible. "What are you talking about?"

"Those numbers in Elaine's journal, they must relate to stuff still in the apartment. I need to see what's there."

"Okay. We can do that. The police will still be there though."

"When has that ever stopped us, dude?" Sam looked up at Dean with a bright smile, all the enthusiasm of a 7 year old on a trip to Disneyland radiating off him in waves. Dean could swear that Sam was almost enjoying this.

"Fine. Let me go … do stuff," Dean waved in the general direction of the small bathroom and hauled himself out of bed. Before he was halfway across the room, Sam had folded the papers and brochures away neatly and was rummaging round for his jacket. Dean smiled and went to make himself look pretty.

Fifteen minutes later, refreshed and ready to face whatever challenges the day threw at him, Dean joined his brother by the door. Ever the hunter, he was fully armed and prepared, he hoped, for anything. Snagging the keys to the Impala off the key rack provided, he turned his charming grin on his brother and strode confidently out to the car.

The trip back to the apartment was quick and uneventful. Dean parked up a block away, just in case the police presence was still heavy but as they turned the corner they had almost spun round the previous evening it became apparent that the mysterious death had warranted no more than a cursory examination of the premises by the police and there was now only one lone office standing guard outside the main entrance. Dean could have cried it was so pathetically easy to get past him.

Inside the apartment the scene was pretty much as the brothers had left it the previous night, save for the absence of a body and accompanying stench. The paintings and sculptures were still lying haphazardly round the studio and the light of day left nothing to the imagination. Some of the canvasses had been shredded with a sharp blade, others had been ripped by hand, torn edges overlapping precise edges. Some had been ignored and left intact. Fragments of clay and metal were scattered across the floor while some of the sculptures had survived the impact and simply rolled out of the way, hiding from the evil that had occurred.

The blood stain on the floor served as a stark reminder of the violence and cruelty that had taken place the previous evening. Dean covertly watched Sam as the younger man passed by and hesitated. After a fraction of a second he moved on to the work top. He studiously leafed through the papers resting there. Dean had no idea what they were looking for so he did what he did best – he snooped around.

Coming across a drawer that had been forced open, he pulled it free of its runners and emptied the remaining contents on the floor. Crouching down, he poked through the papers and notebooks, flicking through pages and turning sheets of canvas and sketchbook pages round until he could make some sense of the pictures and ideas committed thereon.

"Hey, Sam," he called across the room, "do you have any idea what we're looking for?"

Sam paused in his furrow across the worktop and stood to look out of the window. "Um… not really. But when we find it I'm sure it'll be obvious."

Dean snorted and shook his head in exasperation. Just as he was about to resume his examination of a brightly covered notebook, a fallen sketch caught his eye. It was a preliminary charcoal etching of a portrait. There was nothing unusual in it except the features looked startlingly familiar to Dean. The hair of the subject was too long and the eyes a little too perfect but there was no mistaking who Elaine was drawing. He picked the sheet up and gently ran his fingers over the charcoal, careful not to smudge anything. Beneath it lay another sheet, divided into six segments. Each segment had a drawing of the same face, each one from a different angle, a profile, a rear view, a full frontal view, from above, from below and a distance view. Dean couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through him.

"Sam."

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam didn't need to see his brother to recognise that tone of voice. Looking across to him, Sam was concerned to note that Dean seemed frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the portrait in front of him. Crossing the divide between them , Sam bumped his shoulder gently into Dean's arm. "What've you got?"

Dean seemed to snap out of his trance at the contact and thrust the sheet into Sam's face.

"Recognise him?" he demanded and folded his arms across his chest as Sam took the paper. Sam's silence answered Dean's question as well as a 10,000 word thesis. "That's you, dude! Why are there pictures of you in here?"

"I… I don't know. She never said anything about them to me. Why wouldn't she have said anything?" Sam turned the paper over several times, scouring it for answers he knew he wouldn't find. Turning his mind back to his college days when he was friendly with several art students Sam felt a dawning realisation.

"Dean. These aren't just drawings – they're preliminary sketches for a sculpture. The different angles, the repetition. She was planning to make a model." He looked sharply at Dean. "Do you think she made it yet?"

"How the hell should I know?" Dean flung his arms out wide, doing a sweep of the chaos surrounding them. "Start looking. Or maybe it's in that catalogue you're so convinced she had around here someplace." He shook his head and turned back to the task in hand, this new piece of information whirling round his brain. He had no idea why Elaine would have wanted a sculpture of Sam. Maybe she had harboured feelings for him. Maybe she was a secret stalker. Maybe Sammy was more attractive to the female sex than Dean gave him credit for. Whatever the reason, it was disturbing. Dean wasn't sure if he wanted to find a life sized replica of his brother's head. On the one hand it would be fodder for a lifetime of teasing and pranks. On the other, it would be kinda creepy waking up to a clay head at the foot of his bed each morning. He didn't think it would last that long in one piece if they did ever find it. Assuming there was one.

Sam's thoughts were along a similar vein, although the idea of using a bust for a multitude of pranks wasn't high on his list of priorities. As he scoured the studio for any sign of his inanimate doppelganger he wondered what had possessed the artist to use him as her muse. And why she hadn't told him. It wasn't as though it should have been a secret. He didn't think she was going to surprise him with a gift, she had been as open as a book with Sam, or so he'd thought. He couldn't believe that she'd been anything but honest with him. The idea of her examining him, critiquing his features, creeped him out a little. He would have been uncomfortable modelling for her but it would have been better than this.

Kneeling down beneath a large drawing board, his hand closed around a small, black, leather bound notebook that had slipped beneath a pile of paper. Sitting back on his haunches he opened the front cover. Written in Elaine's meticulous script was a list of numbers, alongside which were dates, and a description of a piece of work. It was clearly not the first such journal she'd had, the first entry was only two years old and was for a landscape which she had noted was a 'whimsical escape to the country'. Quickly flicking through the pages to the last entry Sam was almost relieved to find his name. She had started what she described as 'Sam Winchester – a study', ten days ago. Sam didn't know how fast she worked but he would be surprised if they found a completed sculpture.

He was so absorbed by his find that he almost missed the sudden drop in temperature and the unexpected sound of a scuffle. Spinning round, he frantically searched out his brother, only to catch a glimpse of Dean skidding across the floor, clearly unconscious.

"Dean!" He couldn't help crying out, panicking and needing to get to Dean's side. The room was bitterly cold and his breath misted in front of him. Lunging to his brother's side, he quickly and efficiently felt for a pulse and was relieved to feel it beating strong and steady beneath his fingers. Eyes darting everywhere he grasped hold of Dean's shoulder and pulled him under the nearest table. The silence was heavy and overbearing. Sam caught a glimpse of movement to his left and, without it registering, he had his gun in his hand, the other resting on top of Dean's chest, seeking reassurance that the older Winchester was still alive.

Catching sight of another flash of movement, Sam was up on his feet like lightening as a water pot came flying out of nowhere, shattering on the edge of the table he was attempting to shield Dean with. Fragments of glass sprinkled over Dean's legs and Sam ducked back behind an easel, the blank canvas resting on it affording him a little cover. Holding his gun in both hands, Sam spun out from his hiding place. Brushes and palette knives were hovering in midair, mostly harmlessly but Sam had been a hunter long enough to know that nothing truly hovered harmlessly. In a maelstrom of activity the brushes came together in formation, hurtling, without warning, in Sam's direction. Raising his arms defensively, shielding his face, he ducked down, curling in on himself. He could feel the rush of air as they flew over his head, one or two peeling away from the main body and striking him on the arms and hands, leaving scratches and tiny bruises on his exposed skin. The impact was more annoying than painful but Sam was desperately aware that Dean was lying helpless on the floor and those palette knives looked a lot more lethal than brushes.

Even as the thought crossed his mind Sam was horrified to see the knives arrange themselves into a spearheaded arrow. In slow motion he watched as they spun lazily till the point was aiming directly at Dean's prone figure. Without thinking, without hesitating, Sam launched himself at his brother. As he hit the ground beside Dean, he flung himself over him, covering as much of his body as he could with his own. He knew it was going to be painful but he didn't care. The number one rule growing up had always been to look out for each other, to have your brother's back at all times. Dean couldn't defend himself right now, so Sam would do it for him.

Bracing himself for the impact, waiting for the sharp points to prick and pierce his arms and legs, Sam pulled Dean's head into his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of his breath on his neck and the reassuring thump of his heart beating against his chest. He lay there, waiting for the inevitable pain and blood.

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tbc


	3. Chapter 3

After an interminable pause, Sam slowly began to realise that the knives hadn't moved. They were still hanging in the air, pointing menacingly at the brothers. Dean was beginning to stir and his return to consciousness was blighted by confusion. Struggling to get out from under Sam, he grunted a warning to whoever was holding him down. The confusion merely escalated when Sam's hand landed, none too gently, on his chest, holding him down. As his vision cleared he found Sam's face up close and personal.

"Dude! What the hell?" he spluttered and then groaned, eyes glaring up at Sam.

"Stay down, Dean." Sam nodded towards the hovering enemy, slowly releasing his brother once he was happy Dean had seen the danger. Dean swallowed loudly.

"Sam? What's going on?" Dean was instantly on full alert. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. But we have a problem. We need to get out of here."

"Well, I'm with you on that one. Any bright ideas?" Dean grunted, cautiously raising a hand to his head, pausing to gently probe the bump that had appeared just above his left ear. It felt sticky and Dean knew, without looking, that his fingers would come away bloody.

"Maybe we could shoot it?" Sam suggested, although he didn't think a gun would work against a gathering of knives. Sure, they might take a couple out of action but the rest would still be there. A shot of rock salt would probably do the trick but he had silver bullets in his gun and he doubted Dean had done anything differently. The shot gun was too conspicuous to have gotten past the cops so they had opted to leave it in the Impala. On reflection, Sam wished they'd brought it with them. It wasn't as if they hadn't done it before. Dean' snort of derision mirrored his thoughts.

"Don't think that'll help, Sammy. We need a distraction so we can get to the door." Keeping his eyes glued to the hovering danger, Dean pushed Sam to one side and raised himself up on one elbow. Pausing to let the room settle down again, he blinked against the headache stirring in the base of his skull. "Hey, maybe we could drown it?" he suggested, catching sight of a bottle of turpentine.

"What?" Sam queried.

"Think about it, Sammy. If Elaine used turpentine to clean her brushes, maybe she used it on the knives too. Maybe it'll cleanse it of whatever's holding them together."

It sounded a pretty farfetched idea to Sam, but he had no alternative to offer. They were effectively pinned where they were and he didn't fancy spending the rest of the day under the table. Dean's eyes had a glassy sheen to them that Sam didn't like the look of. They had nothing to lose by trying. He shrugged and slowly leaned over till the bottle was within his reach.

Just as his fingertips brushed the cool plastic of the bottle, a particularly vicious looking palette knife broke free from the pack and hurtled down towards Sam's arm. It lodged brutally in his forearm and he couldn't help but release a cry of pain. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his arm in to his body, cradling it with his other hand.

"Shit, Sam. Lemme see!" Dean pulled himself to a sitting position, ignoring the remaining weapons that seemed content to wait for their next move. Gently pulling Sam's arm across his chest, Dean swore softly under his breath. The palette knife wasn't deep in his forearm, Sam's jacket and shirt had afforded some protection at least. But it was enough to give cause for concern. Dean quickly assessed the injury, deciding that the knife had to come out, painful as it was going to be. Common sense was screaming at him to leave it be, but he had no choice. Sam was going to be unable to use his arm with a knife sticking out of it and although it was going to hurt like hell when Dean pulled it out, he didn't really see a way round it. He cast his eyes around, looking for a makeshift bandage. Spotting a relatively clean rag within reach, he cautiously reached for it, making sure the floating implements stayed where they were. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to be stopped, Dean grasped the fabric.

"Sorry, dude," he muttered. "This is going to hurt," and he took hold of the knife, pulling sharply, withdrawing the offending object in one fell swoop. Instantly wrapping the cloth around the bleeding wound, Dean quickly tied it off. He smiled apologetically at Sam. "That's it. You did good."

Sam's face was pale and drawn. Although the blood loss could have been a lot worse, the sharp blade had sliced cleanly through fabric, skin and flesh. Sam's arm throbbed in rhythm with his beating heart. With every pulse of his blood, he could feel the makeshift dressing becoming wetter and heavier. He breathed through his nose in an attempt to control the pain and looked at Dean.

"I guess you were onto something," he told Dean, ruefully. "Something doesn't want us getting that turpentine."

"Which means we really need it." Dean moved away from Sam, giving him some space to manoeuvre his arm back onto his chest, holding it so as to immobilise it as best he could. He gingerly flexed his fingers, only to rapidly pull them back into a fist as a sharp, unrelenting pain shot up his tendons. He doubted he could hold on to the bottle, even if he was able to get to it. He shook his head apologetically at his brother.

"I can't do it, Dean."

"Move over then," Dean grunted, as he unceremoniously rolled over his brother, careful to avoid hurting either of them more than they already were. Lifting his upper body over Sam's damaged limb, he shifted onto his elbows, ignoring the pounding headache and the darts of white light encroaching on the edges of his vision. Once in position on the other side of Sam, he sought out the bottle that was the cause of all this grief. He mentally calculated the distance he would have to travel, compared with the distance the knives would have to move, working out how fast he would have to move to avoid the same fate that had befallen Sam. Taking a final look at the floating arsenal in front of them, he took a deep breath and lunged to the side.

Looking back on it, Sam would be hard pressed to say what order things happened in. He felt Dean's presence leave his side, he felt the air pressure drop, he felt the corresponding drop in temperature again and he heard the splash of liquid spilling, the clatter of metal dropping from midair. And he heard his brother curse over and over again. He didn't hear any cries of pain, which he took as a good thing, and when he looked over at Dean, he was relieved to see no more blood. Dean lay on his side, an empty bottle of turpentine in his hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

The floating weaponry was no more. Knives and scalpels lay harmlessly on the floor at their feet. They glistened with moisture and the smell of the turpentine filled the air. One or two had managed to get as far as Dean's torso but the cleanser had done it's job before they had made contact with their target.

"Guess that told 'em who's boss," Dean laughed, feeling the adrenaline leaving his body. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. "I'll tell you what, Sammy. I'm stocking up on turps from now on."

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**A/N - I know this was a short chapter but it seemed like a good place to stop. Next chapters are longer again.**

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

Getting back out of the apartment was as easy as getting in. If Dean's head hadn't been throbbing and if he hadn't been so keen to get Sam's arm cleaned and dressed properly, he would have enjoyed playing the officer a little. Other matters were more pressing however and, as they made their way back to the Impala, Dean wondered who was in the best condition to drive. His brain was still trying to make its way out of his skull and Sam was clinging on to his arm as if it was about to fall off. In the end, proprietorship won out and Dean made his way to the driver's side. Sliding into the car he lay his head back for a few seconds while Sam made himself as comfortable as possible. Once Sam was settled, Dean started the engine, feeling as though part of him were coming alive as the thrum of the motor vibrated through the classic chassis.

Guiding the car back through the traffic was no easy task, taking all of Dean's concentration. Sam didn't instigate a conversation for a change, preferring to gaze out of the window, occasionally flexing his fingers and instantly regretting it. The drive was short and uneventful, much to Dean's relief.

Once they were back in their room, Dean made short work of tidying up his impromptu wound dressing, cleaning and examining Sam's arm with care and skill learned through too many comparable experiences. The wound was deep and still bleeding sluggishly. There were no two ways about it, Dean decided ruefully. He would have to stitch the edges of the gash together. He did it quickly and efficiently, wishing his headache would let up, just a little. Once Sam had been put back together to Dean's exacting standards Dean let himself relax a little. He patted Sam on the arm gently and made his way into the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror gave him quite a shock and in retrospect he was glad they hadn't been stopped. He looked gaunt and pale and there was a dried trail of blood spilling from his hairline. He was surprised Sam hadn't gone all mother hen but he supposed it was something to do with the discomfort his brother was feeling. He grasped a washcloth from the side of the bathtub and ran it under cold water. Gently probing the area with his fingers, wincing slightly when he found the site of the wound, he proceeded to wipe the blood away from his face and hair. Once he was shiny and sparkly clean he parted his hair in order to examine the cut. He was lucky. It wasn't deep and had stopped bleeding some time ago.

Back in the bedroom Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring stupidly at his arm. Pausing briefly to grab some painkillers from the first aid kit and a glass of water, Dean moved to the bed opposite, groaning a little as he sank into the too soft mattress.

"What happened back there?" Sam's softly spoken question took Dean by surprise. He was trying hard to keep his eyes open, a battle he was fairly convinced he was going to lose in the not too distant future.

"Well," he had to think hard to formulate an answer. His head was pounding in sync with his heart beat and it was becoming increasingly hard to stay awake. "I'm guessing Elaine wasn't killed by a pissed off client." He tossed back the painkillers with a swig of water.

Sam looked up from his arm and studied Dean properly for the first time since they'd left the apartment. There was virtually no colour in his brother's face and he seemed to be sliding further down the headboard. Overcome by guilt that he'd been so wrapped up in his own pain that he hadn't noticed Dean's predicament, Sam shifted forward.

"Dean? How you holding up?" he queried. Dean turned weary eyes in his direction.

"I'm good, Sammy. Just a little headache, nothing I can't handle." He closed his eyes, promising himself it was just to rest his eyelids for a couple of seconds. The pounding was receding slightly, the painkillers doing their job.

He didn't remember falling asleep but the next thing he knew was Sam's face in his personal space and a hand persistently but gently slapping his cheek. Batting a hand at it, he glared at the worried features above him.

"Dude! Get off of me! I told you, I'm good."

"Yeah, Dean. That's why you just passed out."

"I did not pass out … did I?"

"Uhuh – for a couple of minutes. I was getting worried. Why didn't you tell me you were hurt so bad?"

Dean closed his eyes again, but this time remaining fully conscious. "It's not that bad, Sam. Headache, that's all." When he looked up again Sam had retreated back to his own side of the room and was rummaging through the first aid kit. "I already took some pills, Sam. Don't need any more."

"I know, but that cut could do with a dressing."

Dean huffed a little and then smirked, feeling a lot more like himself. "And how are you going to do that, Horatio?"

That stopped Sam in his tracks as he remembered his own injury. He flexed the fingers on his damaged limb and winced as pain reignited up his arm. Dean laughed and took pity on his brother, who obviously wasn't quite firing on all cylinders.

"It's fine, Sam. I checked it already myself. Not even bleeding any more and if it scars…"

With an exasperated shrug of his shoulders Sam settled himself back down and regarded Dean seriously.

"I think we could both do with a time out here. Get some sleep, Dean. You'll feel better for it."

"And what are you going to be doing?"

Sam waved around the room in general. "Research, dude."

Several hours of relatively undisturbed sleep later Dean was feeling better and itching to get going. Sam had woken him periodically, Dean had flung abuse at him each time and gone back to sleep. When he finally woke himself the room was quiet and the sun was setting over the horizon. Sam was nowhere to be seen but on the nightstand was a piece of motel stationery with a distinctive scrawl on it. Dean would recognise Sam's writing anywhere, if only by way of the fact it was virtually illegible. Snatching it up, he squinted to read it. Even then, it took two attempts to decipher what the younger man had written.

_Dean, gone to get food. Take it easy. Back soon._

There wasn't a time on the note, so Dean had no idea how long he would have to wait. Still, Sam was a big boy now and he had no cause to worry yet. Although, if he'd taken the Impala with impaired movement in one arm he was going to kick his ass for it. On the way to the bathroom he glanced out of the window to check on his baby. It was still sitting in the parking lot, gleaming in the dying daylight. Wherever Sam had gone, he'd gone on foot. Chances were by the time Dean was done in the bathroom Sam would be back.

Sure enough, when Dean emerged in a cloud of steam Sam was sitting at the small table, a greasy paper bag in front of him. Without even looking up from his laptop, Sam thrust the offending article at Dean, who accepted it gracefully, sitting on the bed to rummage through it. Coming up with a double cheeseburger with extra fries he grinned at Sam.

"Dude, you're awesome."

"I've been thinking," Sam started, ignoring the compliment, "There was no sign of forced entry so either Elaine knew her attacker, or it didn't need to use conventional methods of getting in." He looked up at Dean. "Spirits walk through walls, demons take on disguises, witches don't generally look threatening. It could have been anything."

"So, what are you saying, Sammy?" Dean queried through a mouthful of burger bun.

"I think we need to find a motive before we're going to get anywhere on this one."

"And why she was going to make a model of you," Dean added, unwilling to admit that it bothered him quite so much.

"We need to find some of her friends, talk to them. Maybe she told someone about her projects. I mean, she must have been proud of her work. Somebody must know something."

"Okay, where did she hang out?" Dean was beginning to like the sound of this. Inactivity wasn't his strong point and somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled the bohemian lifestyles of some artists. He really hoped Elaine had found herself amongst that crowd.

"She told me she was going to be down at the Lounge Bar on Saturday night for some party or other. Sounded like she was a regular. We could start there?" Sam looked across at Dean who was becoming more animated by the minute. He grinned broadly at his younger brother and, scrunching up the now empty paper bag, rose rapidly from his seat. Ignoring the brief tilt of the room, he aimed for the trash can, hitting it square on.

"C'mon then, Sam. What're we waiting for?"

"It's a little early still, Dean. Most people won't be there till after ten."

"Gives us time to scope out the bar then." Dean was ready to go and no amount of objection from Sam was going to stop him now.

****

Frustratingly, Sam was right. The Winchester brothers had arrived at the Lounge Bar as the doors were just opening. Not surprisingly they were the first customers, which gave Dean ample time to check out the place. He had all the exits and entrances catalogued in his head before Sam had even ordered their first drinks. They had slunk into a corner booth, happy to be out of the limelight, where they could watch the door and the bar.

It took another hour of nursing the same beer before the place began to liven up. The first patrons were students, judging by the conversation Sam overheard at the bar. They were quickly joined by the darlings of society, girls out for a laugh and city boys looking for some escape from the monotony of banking. By ten o'clock the bar was buzzing with conversation and laughter. Dean was disappointed by the lack of pool table and Sam's glare when he mentioned starting up a poker game quickly dispelled any notions he had of coming out of the bar richer than he'd been going in.

Just as Dean was about to order his third beer, and Sam's second soda, Sam nudged him none too gently in the ribs, nodding his head towards a group of five or six people coming through the door. Their laughter rang out loud and clear through the general hubbub of the crowd.

"I recognise him," Sam told Dean, pointing subtly towards a willowy young man in the centre of the group. "Elaine was doing a portrait of him. I don't think she'd finished it yet."

"They don't seem too cut up by her death," Dean observed wryly.

"Maybe they don't know yet," Sam responded. "It was only last night and if they weren't close friends then there's no reason why they would. The cops have kept it out of the news so far."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Think we should let them in on the secret?"

Sam sighed. He knew that Dean was gearing up for action but he'd had a few beers on top of a recent head injury. There was no way he was up to garnering information on his own. He might like to think he had a handle on everything but Sam had seen the repercussions of Dean's self deluded invincibility on more than one occasion.

Before he could come up with a suitable delaying tactic, Dean was up out of his seat, seemingly heading to the bar. Halfway there, he stumbled slightly and knocked into the young man's elbow, causing him to spill his drink.

"Oh, hey man, I'm so sorry," Dean stuttered, overly apologetic, wiping at the man's shirt where the liquor had soaked into the fabric. "Let me get you a fresh drink."

The man looked startled, much to the amusement of his friends who were obviously convinced Dean was just a drunken customer overcompensating.

"No, no. It's fine. I'm okay. It was nearly finished anyway." He had a strong southern accent which, if pushed, Dean would have put somewhere in Louisiana.

Dean looked up from his ministrations with the shirt and put on a puzzled expression. Sam had moved near enough to be able to hear what was being said, without placing himself in the action, and he could tell Dean was gearing up to spin a tale.

"Hey, do I know you?" he asked, examining the younger man's face studiously.

"I don't think so," he replied after a second.

"But I know your face. Are you, like, famous or something?"

"No. I'm sorry. I think you've got me confused with someone." He turned away, back to his friends who had lost interest in the discourse.

"I've got it," Dean exclaimed, smacking his forehead theatrically. "You sit for Elaine, don't you?"

The man stiffened noticeably and turned back to face Dean. "Elaine Frobisher?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's the one," Dean continued, now in full flow. Sam couldn't have stopped him if he'd tried. "I've seen your portrait. Man, that was one hell of a picture. Now I've seen you … Elaine had you spot on."

From where Sam was hovering in the background he could see a shadow pass over the younger man's face as he tried to work out what was wrong with Dean's statement. Sam could tell the second comprehension struck.

"What do you mean 'had'?" he looked Dean full in the eye for the first time and Dean felt an unanticipated shiver run down his spine. He had the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen but there wasn't an ounce of warmth in them. He had a couple of inches on the man but in that instant Dean was convinced the man opposite him was built of solid steel.

"You've not heard then?" He took an involuntary step backwards. "Elaine's dead. They found her last night." He put on a look of horror that had Sam biting back a laugh. When Dean played a role, he really went all out.

At his words, the whole group turned towards him as one. They looked a mixture of horrified and fascinated. A couple of the group pushed their way to the front, eyeing Dean up from head to toe as though he were an exhibit on show. A young woman, short black hair gelled up into spikes, moved directly in front of the young man.

"How did she die?" she asked.

Dean's attention was fully on her. He caught her eye and a seductive smile found its way on to his face. "They wouldn't say," he whispered, conspiratorially, "but I heard it was violent." He raised his eyebrows. "Did you know her too?"

"Only through Chris," she replied, jerking her head at the man Sam had originally spotted. Dean transferred his gaze to him.

"She was painting me," he finally admitted, "but you already knew that. Hannah came with me a couple of times. Wanted to check I was behaving." He shifted forwards slightly and his left arm came up and rested around the black haired girl's shoulders. She leaned back into him, watching Dean for a reaction from under long lashes and Dean couldn't help a twinge of disappointment. He smirked instead at Chris.

"Oh yeah. I know what that's like. So, what made you want to get your portrait done?" It was an innocent question but Sam could feel a wave of tension sweep through the group from where he was standing. Chris's girl looked up at him anxiously, almost willing him not to answer.

"I didn't." Chris paused and suddenly seemed to realise he had an audience. He gently pushed the girl away, back towards the group. "How about that drink you owe me?" he asked and moved towards the bar, not looking back to check Dean was following.

* * *

**tbc**


	5. Chapter 5

Although Sam lost sight of Dean in the crowd, he wasn't too concerned. This was a typical hunting ground for his older brother and he seriously doubted Chris presented much of a threat in a bar like this. Pushing himself off the wall he'd been leaning against he was startled to come face to face with the girl Chris had seemed so well acquainted with.

"Why were you watching us?" she demanded, her petite features hardening in accusation.

Not wanting to be caught in a lie, Sam decided to play it simple. Less chance of getting in a mess later on that way.

"Dean's my brother," he explained, waving a hand in the direction of the bar. "He's had a few drinks tonight," a shrug, "and I was just keeping an eye on him." Sam stopped and gave her a resigned smile. "I get to be designated driver."

All the tension seemed to leech out of her body and she returned Sam's smile with a warmth he wasn't expecting. "Me too. We seem to be the wallflowers right now, as well. My name's Hannah." She extended her right hand out to Sam, who grasped it in his. Her handshake was firm and steady.

As she withdrew her hand, Sam noticed flecks of paint under her fingernails. "Are you an artist too?"

Hannah followed Sam's eyes to her hands and laughed, "I try to be, but there are so many good painters about here I don't think I'm ever going to make any impression round here." She looked up at Sam and seemed to come to a decision. "Look, your brother seems to have abandoned you. Why don't you come and join us? We're really very friendly."

Sam hesitated, looking over the heads of the crowd separating him from Dean. He could just see his brother's head nodding animatedly at the bar. Hannah looked in the same direction, but being a good foot and half shorter than Sam she could see nothing. Taking Sam's hesitation as a refusal, she put a hand on his arm, recapturing his attention.

"I'm sure your brother will find you. Come on. Relax, have a drink. I promise to behave."

Sam smiled at her and nodded in agreement. She was right, Dean would find him and if he didn't, well, Dean could look after himself. Hannah gently pulled him over to the group she and Chris had arrived with.

****

By the time the bar was closing, Dean still hadn't reappeared. Chris had returned to the group a some time ago and whilst Sam hadn't initially been too concerned by Dean's absence, it was beginning to be a little worrying now. He had asked Chris where his brother was and been told he had hit the little boys' room. Unless Dean had scored between there and here though, Sam didn't think he was still in there. He finished up his soda and pushed himself up from the booth the group had occupied, making his goodbyes.

He'd learnt little of great interest from anyone although he did now have a clearer picture of Elaine's last few hours. She had spent the afternoon of her death in town with her friends, browsing the local trinket shops and drinking in various cafes and bars. She'd said goodbye at about 7.30 and that was the last time she'd been seen. There had been no arrangements to meet up so news of her untimely demise had hit the group hard. Sam felt a bit like a harbinger of doom when he had shared some limited details with them.

However, he had more immediate problems to hand at the moment. Dean had now been missing in action for almost an hour. While Sam could understand if he'd hooked up with a girl, it was unusual for him not to let his brother know he could stand down for the rest of the evening. Turning down offers of coffee and artistic discourse back at Hannah's apartment, Sam turned his attention to finding his wayward brother.

The bar had emptied considerably in the last quarter of an hour and Sam should have been able to spot Dean easily. He wasn't anywhere to be seen in the sultry lighting the bar owners obviously thought conducive to drinking and other dubious practices that Sam had thought he'd spotted in one or two of the darker corners.

Deciding to check the last place Dean had been seen, he headed to the men's room. Pushing the door open with his foot, hand hovering over his gun, just in case, he didn't know whether to be relieved or troubled that there was no indication his brother had ever been in the room. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

Spinning round on his heel, Sam cast one last fruitless glance around the bar. Chris, Hannah and their friends had left and the only clientele left were propping up the bar, much to the dismay of the barkeep who looked like she really, really wanted to call it a day. Dean was still nowhere in sight.

Sam wandered up to the girl behind the bar who scowled ever so slightly before she could stop herself.

"We're closing up," she told him, in no uncertain terms.

"Oh, that's okay. I didn't want a drink," Sam explained pacifying her with upheld hands in mock surrender. "I'm looking for my brother. He's gone off and I'm supposed to be driving him home. Don't suppose you've seen him have you? Leather jacket, about six foot one, short brown hair?"

The girl frowned, thinking briefly before her face lit up in recognition. "He the one talking to Chris earlier?"

"Yes! That's him. Have you seen him?"

"Oh yeah. I saw him," she replied and Sam cringed, wondering what Dean said, or did, to make her remember him with that look on her face. "He left with some girl about an hour ago."

"Do you know who she was?" Sam knew he was pushing his luck but Dean would never leave without at least getting a message to him.

"Seen her around once or twice. She hangs out with those artist types that live over by the park," and that appeared to be the end of the conversation as she moved down the bar, away from Sam, gathering empty glasses and encouraging the remaining customers to get a move on.

Feeling slightly perturbed by this latest turn of events, Sam pulled out his phone. There were no missed calls or messages but that didn't mean Dean couldn't answer his phone. He quickly pulled up Dean's number and hit the call button. The phone rang a couple of times and then switched over to voicemail.

"Dean, hi. Where are you? I've been looking for you, man. Give me a call as soon as you pick this up."

Frustrated, Sam put his phone away again and made his way to the parking lot. Outside the night air was bitterly cold in stark contrast to the comparative warmth of the day. The stars overhead seemed to taunt him with their sparkling twinkles. The Impala sat where they had left it earlier that evening but other than two or three other cars, the parking lot was deserted.

Sam flung himself down on the hood of the car, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He tried his phone once more, only to be met by the same voicemail he'd received a few scant minutes ago. Debating his next move, he was startled out of his reverie by a scratching, scrabbling sound. Ordinarily he would have passed it off as a night fox, scavenging for scraps thrown out by passersby but now every little sound had him on high alert.

Standing up, he listened intently for the sound to repeat itself. For a few minutes there was nothing and Sam was just beginning to think he'd been imagining it when he heard it again. This time it was accompanied by a low moan, so quiet that Sam almost passed it off as the wind in the parking lot.

He cautiously made his way in the direction he thought the noise had come from, his hand unconsciously gripping the gun concealed at the small of his back. Without realising he had drawn his weapon, he rounded the corner of the building that housed the Lounge Bar.

The alley at the side was unlit by street lamps and all the neighbouring windows had their lights outs. Pulling a mini torch from his jacket pocket, and thanking his foresight for coming equipped for anything, he probed the length of the alley. A cat shot past his legs, making him jump in surprise and he was about to flick of the light, thinking the cat was his culprit, when the moaning started up again, much closer this time.

Edging into the passageway, Sam shone his torch behind several dumpsters that served the adjacent properties. He felt his blood run cold as the torch picked up a trail of liquid, glistening grotesquely in the beam of light. He followed the path with his torch up to the point where it disappeared into a doorway.

Shifting his grip on his gun, Sam silently crept towards the entrance. Hunter instincts kicking in, he was sure nobody would hear or see him as he kept to the edge of the surrounding buildings, hiding himself in the shadows. As he reached the end of the trail he spun round to the doorway, weapon drawn in front of him, ready to shoot if necessary, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Lying in a crumpled heap was the unmistakable form of the older hunter. Falling to his knees next to his brother, Sam reached out a trembling hand to feel for a pulse, ignoring the sharp grit digging into his legs. Dean's neck was cold from exposure but Sam sagged in relief when his fingers picked up a steady beat. It wasn't as strong as Sam would have liked but it was there and that was all he asked for.

Sam gently pulled Dean onto his back, closing his eyes briefly against the pale, battered features presented to him by that action. By the light of the torch now tucked under his arm, Sam could see whatever Dean had been up to hadn't ended well. Dean's face was smeared with blood. There was so much of it Sam couldn't tell where it came from. He suspected more than one wound had caused it but until he got Dean back to the motel and into safety he couldn't know for sure.

There were a couple of minor bruises on his brother's cheekbone and a rather more substantial one along his jaw. Sam couldn't help but reflect on the rainbow Dean was going to resemble in the morning as he gently patted his brother's face in an effort to bring him round.

"Dean. Dean. C'mon, man. Wake up." He cast a look down the alley. There was no sign of anyone lurking which Sam decided was probably a good thing.

Dean's return to consciousness took Sam by surprise. The first he knew of it was a fist clipping his jaw, knocking him onto his backside. He quickly grabbed the offending limb and held on tight as Dean attempted to rip his arm free, all the while trying to sit up. He pulled his leg up and flung it out in a remarkably uncoordinated attempt to kick Sam.

Realising that Dean had no idea where he was, or who was with him, Sam had no choice. He raised himself up onto his knees and, keeping a firm hold of the wrist he already had, brought his other arm across Dean's chest, effectively pinning him on the ground, preventing him from getting up.

"Dean! Relax, man. It's me. You're safe. It's okay, Dean."

Dean raised glassy eyes to meet Sam's concerned ones. He blinked dazedly several times before relaxing under Sam's hands.

"Sammy?" It was barely a whisper and it pained Sam to hear the pain and confusion behind that one word. He moved his arm from Dean's chest, although he wasn't quite ready to let go of his brother's swinging arm.

"Yeah, it's me. How're you doing?"

"Crappy," Dean admitted after a few seconds thought. "What happened?"

"I was kinda hoping you'd tell me," Sam returned, hiding his concern at Dean's apparent lack of memory.

Dean's eyes fluttered closed and for one brief, heart stopping moment, Sam thought he'd lost consciousness again. He released his brother's wrist and pulled Dean's head up until it was resting against his leg, off the unforgiving ground. Dean mumbled a little and shook his head. His eyes opened a crack and he gave Sam a confused glare.

"Dude, stop with the touchy feely crap. I'm good."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, you look great too. How many fingers?" He held three fingers in front of Dean's face, which crinkled up in concentration.

It was no use though. Sam's fingers swam in and out of focus, succeeding only in making Dean feel nauseous. He looked away, swallowing heavily but it was no good. Fortunately Sam realised what was about to happen and managed to roll Dean on to his side before he lost the contents of his stomach.

Once Dean had been reduced to dry heaves, Sam drew him gently into an upright position and rested a hand at the side of his neck, surreptitiously checking Dean's pulse. His brother's skin was cold and clammy and, with a jolt, Sam realised that he was about to go into shock. His priority was to get them both off the street and back to the motel where he could warm his brother up. The concussion, which he was sure Dean was suffering from, and the other injuries could be dealt with once they were safe and warm.

Wrapping one arm round the older hunter's waist, and taking hold of his wrist with the other, after much flailing and wavering, Sam managed to get them both to their feet. In any other circumstances their manoeuvre would have seemed comical to the point of ridiculous but Sam was past caring what they looked like. He only had one objective in mind.

Agonisingly slowly, they staggered back to the parking lot. Sam sighed with relief when the Impala came into view, like a knight in shining armour. The last few feet to the car seemed to take as long as the entire previous trek, Dean becoming more and more dependent on his brother to get him there. By the time Sam propped Dean up against the car's flank he was virtually carrying him.

Sam drove back to the motel as quickly as he dared, the last thing he needed was to be stopped for speeding or erratic driving. Dean had passed out almost immediately he had been deposited on the passenger seat, shivering uncontrollably. Sam had cranked up the heating to the point he sweating buckets and desperate for some fresh air. Carefully avoiding potholes in the road, and swerving to miss the various wildlife dashing across the road, Sam made it in record time.

Flinging the car into the spot nearest their room, he hurriedly opened the door before retrieving Dean. Although he was unwilling to disturb his brother, he knew he needed to wake him periodically and now seemed as good a time as any. At least he could help get himself to their room.

Rousing Dean was more difficult than he would have liked. A few gentle taps on the face didn't have any effect so he had to resort to pressing a fist into his sternum, rubbing it back and forth a couple of times. This had the desired result as Dean mumbled and groaned before peering through bleary eyes.

"We're here, dude. Let's get you inside," Sam told him, softly, holding out a hand to assist Dean.

Ever the hero, Dean shrugged off any suggestion of help, glaring at Sam as best he could while he swung his legs out of the car. Using the roof for support he managed to get himself upright, but as soon as he let go of the Impala the world tilted on its axis and he would have crashed to the ground if it hadn't been for Sam waiting to catch him.

Getting him into the room was marginally easier, Dean still leaning heavily on his brother but able to move his legs in a semblance of coordination. Once through the door, Sam dropped him unceremoniously onto the nearest bed and disappeared into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit, cranking up the heating on the way. By the time he returned, Dean had his eyes closed yet again.

Sitting on the side of the bed, Sam satisfied himself that Dean was just sleeping before pulling off his boots and covering him with two blankets and the comforter off his own bed. Opening the first aid kit, he took a good look at his brother's battered face, wondering where to start.

"Oh, Dean," he sighed, opening a sterile wipe and beginning to clean the blood off Dean's forehead. "What the hell happened to you?"


	6. Chapter 6

Dean followed Chris, elbowing his way through the throng till they halted at the bar. Chris was clearly a familiar face and quickly caught the barmaid's eye. As did Dean. He had seen more attractive bartenders before, but not many. She had a mass of shoulder length chestnut brown curls and sparkling blue eyes. Her mouth formed a delicious pout as she took their order and Dean made a mental note to revisit here later, on his own.

Chris, for all his forcefulness of pulling Dean away from the others, didn't seem desperately keen to start a conversation. After what felt like an eternity, and just after the silence ceased to be comfortable, Chris turned to Dean and raised his beer bottle in a toast.

"To Elaine," he proclaimed. Dean clinked his own bottle against the raised beer.

"To Elaine," he agreed, taking a long swig of the liquor. "You were going to tell me why you were getting her to paint you," he prompted.

Chris snorted into his drink as if Dean had told a dirty joke. "I wasn't'," he stated. "She just did it. I don't think I was ever meant to find out about it but Hannah spotted it one night Elaine was holding an open studio and told me."

"Wow. So, Elaine was sweet on you then?" Dean couldn't help the shiver that crept up his spine. It was beginning to look like the dead woman was a serial stalker.

Chris looked puzzled. "I hardly think so," he surmised. "I don't think she even liked me that much. Hannah and I only went to the open evening because there was free booze." He had the decency to look a little ashamed but then straightened up again. "Hannah likes to party."

"I can imagine," Dean smirked, looking back over to the group they'd left. He was oddly relieved to see Sam wandering over to the group with the petite woman in question. He looked relaxed but Dean knew he was looking out for the first sign of trouble.

Chris followed his gaze, resting his eyes on Hannah, and sighed. "Yeah. She's a bit of a wild one when she gets going. Anyway, she wandered off and next thing I knew she was yabbering on about some picture and how it cool it was that I hadn't mentioned it to her and was it a present for her and how long had I been sitting for it." He turned back to Dean and gave a helpless little shrug. "I didn't know what to say."

"Didn't you ask Elaine about it?"

"Oh, yes. She fobbed me off to start with. Said it wasn't me, it was just coincidence but when I took her to look at it she couldn't deny it. She told me she'd received a private commission for it but she wouldn't tell me who she was painting it for." He stopped, lost in recollection, oblivious to Dean's stiffened posture. "I demanded she stop and told her I'd collect the picture next time I was in town. I was going to fetch it tomorrow."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. He cast an uneasy look to his brother who had made himself comfortable, blissfully unaware of the worrying revelations Dean had received. Chris, having reached the end of his tale, and his beer, pushed off the bar and gestured towards Hannah and their friends.

"You coming over?" he enquired, genially.

"Yeah, I'll be there in a minute." Dean watched the younger man head back to the group uneasily. In the back of his mind he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something about Chris, he just couldn't put his finger on it. More troubling was the question of who commissioned the work of art. What if the same person was waiting for a sculpture of Sam?

Unwilling to join the group of artists just yet, Dean watched the interaction of the crowd. Sam had obviously fitted right in and Dean felt an unexpected pang of regret as he wondered if this was how it had been for his brother at Stanford. He could picture Sam in student bars, discussing the latest case studies and the rights and wrongs of the newest statutes and bills with his fellow students. It was still too fresh in his mind so he dare not even consider how Sam felt.

Dean was startled from his thoughts as a young woman staggered into him.

"Oh, hey. Be careful there, honey." Dean instinctively put a hand out to steady the girl.

"Oops," she giggled. "Sorry." She looked up at him with brown eyes, through long, dark lashes, wobbling slightly. "Or, maybe not," she amended as she took a long, very unladylike survey of the man standing in front of her. "Buy me a drink?" she asked hopefully.

Dean smiled and shook his head, "I think you've had enough for one night," he told her, although the idea wasn't totally abhorrent to him. She certainly had potential but, he reminded himself, he was there on a job and he wasn't going to leave Sam on his own while there was a potential stalker out there.

The girl's face fell and, for one horrible minute, Dean thought she was going to cry. She seemed to collect herself rapidly however and turned brightly away from him.

"Oh well," she muttered, "plenty more fish in the sea," and she took an unsteady step away from Dean.

"How about I get you a cab?" Dean couldn't stand by and watch the girl wander off into potential trouble. Although he had no issue with one night stands, he preferred it if all parties were fully aware of what they were letting themselves in for. This girl was obviously no longer in full control of her faculties and he knew he would hate himself if she wound up in an alley somewhere.

He gently took hold of her elbow and steered her through the crowd towards the door, hoping to catch Sam's eye on the way. Sam, however, was fully focussed on something Hannah was saying. It didn't seem too important to Dean though. He was only going to be a few minutes although he didn't recall seeing any cabs earlier on. This part of town was bound to have some cruising round at closing time, he assumed.

Once outside, the night air caught him unawares and he unconsciously pulled his jacket a little tighter as he cast his eyes up and down the street. It was oddly bereft of vehicles of any description and he was just about to give up when the girl leaned heavily into him, looking up drunkenly.

"We'd have more luck on Everson Street," she told him. "We can cut through the alley."

Dean winced at the pronounced slur in her speech. He was beginning to wish he had left her to her own devices but he couldn't abandon her now, so he simply nodded an acknowledgement. She had shifted her grip so she was now hanging on to Dean's arm and she pulled him along until they were half way down the alley in question where she stopped abruptly. Dean looked at her in surprise, hoping she wasn't about to throw up or try to come on to him again.

Worryingly, her grip on his arm had tightened. His own senses slightly dulled by the few beers he'd consumed, he didn't realise at first that she had straightened up. All signs of inebriation had fled from her body and, as he tried to extricate his arm from her grip, her fingers tightened painfully on his forearm.

"Dean Winchester," she stated and Dean felt his blood run cold. "You should have stayed away. There's nothing for you here."

"Who are you?" he demanded, yanking his arm back towards his body. She was tenacious though and refused to let go. She was impossibly strong and Dean kicked himself for being taken in by her damsel in distress act. Glancing up and down the alley he realised he was on his own.

The girl shoved him backwards till he hit the wall. Moving in till her body was pressing against his, she put her mouth to his ear.

"There's nobody here to help you, Dean. Little Sammy's busy. You were seen leaving the bar with a chick and with your reputation…" she trailed off and Dean could see the logic. If anyone missed him they would just assume he'd scored for the night. Only Sam would notice and even then it would be too late.

She placed a hand against his chest, pushing with just enough strength to let Dean know who was in charge. He instinctively pushed back but the force holding him there was more powerful. The girl laughed, a pretty tinkle of a laugh but tainted with an underlying menace.

"You just don't know when you're beaten, do you?"

"Takes more than a pretty girl to beat me," Dean snarked, "who are you? Or should I say, what are you?"

"Oh, Dean. You know how to hurt a girl's feelings, don't you? It doesn't matter who I am. All that matters is that you're not needed here. You're not wanted here. I'm here to put that right." And she raised ebony black eyes to his face, smiling a sickly sweet smile.

An icy ball formed in Dean's stomach. He hadn't been prepared for demons, yet there was no denying what was now standing in front of him, taunting him, threatening him. Deciding the time for chat was over, Dean put all his effort into repelling her. He surged forward with all his might and succeeded in dislodging her from his chest. At the same time, he wrenched his arm out to the side, so she had no choice but to let go or go flying in the same direction.

As soon as he was free, he dived to the left, hitting the ground and rolling to his feet in one smooth move. Hand reaching for his gun, he nearly managed to get it out before she flicked her wrist and he was flying through the air. He landed with a grunt, head connecting with the corner of a dumpster. Sharp pain shot through his head and, through the ringing in his ears, he heard her laughing again. He knew that warmth on the side of his head was blood without having to check it.

Before he could get his feet back under him, her hand was round his throat, squeezing enough to restrict his breathing but not enough to crush his airways.

"Tut, tut, Dean. Didn't your mommy tell you it's not nice to play with guns?" She pulled Dean to his feet, pressing him up against the wall. "I guess not," she continued with a wicked glint in her now normal eyes. She studied his face longingly, sending a shiver of revulsion down Dean's spine as her tongue darted out from between her lips.

"You know, Dean, we could have some real fun before anyone misses you," she whispered, leaning so close he could feel her breath on his neck. He couldn't hold back the shudder when her lips pressed a deceptively gentle kiss on the soft skin where his neck met his collar bone. At the same time she snaked her free hand round his waist to the weapon concealed at his back, effectively disarming him.

"No, thanks," he rasped, "you're really not my type. I prefer my girls to be, well, girls."

"Always the talker, aren't you Dean. So much bravado." She stepped back, keeping her hold on his throat. "What are you hiding under all that show? Who are you trying to fool?"

Her hand tightened slightly and the little air that was getting through began to diminish. It wasn't long before Dean was seeing little specks of light dancing in his vision. The demon was smiling at him still and it was beginning to get on his nerves. He had lost all track of time. Surely Sam must have missed him by now.

A noise from the main street distracted them both momentarily, Dean's hopes rising only to be quashed when an alley cat shot past them, throwing up dirt and dust in its wake. Using the disturbance to his advantage, Dean threw his weight forward violently. Taken by surprise the girl stumbled back a few steps, pulling him with her. Dean immediately dropped, deadweight, to the floor, forcing her to either fall with him, or let go. Fortunately, she opted for the latter and Dean scrambled frantically away from her, disregarding the sharp grit that spiked his hands and caught at the fabric of his jeans.

Furious, the demon flung her hand out and just managed to catch hold of the hunter's ankle. She pulled sharply, halting Dean's flight and bringing him crashing to the ground on his stomach, face greeting the gravel beneath painfully. Dragging him back towards her, she cursed him with words that would have made a sailor blush.

Dean tried desperately not to cry out but the pain in his head was merely exacerbated by the new assault on his balance. His face was scraping along the ground and the grit and debris lying there was opening new wounds all the time.

The girl was pissed off now. Her foot swung out, catching Dean just below his ribs, stealing all his remaining breath. He rolled with the impact, curling in on himself as he readied his body for the next blow which he was sure was coming. He opened his mouth, body screaming for oxygen which his lungs refused to draw in as the next kick landed just above his kidney. He finally managed to secure a ragged breath as he cried out, involuntarily arching his back in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

Somewhere above him, he could hear laughter. He offered up a prayer to whoever was listening, begging for some relief from the throbbing in his head and back. In true Winchester style though, nobody was listening. The demon's foot swung out one final time and landed solidly on his shoulder. Unbidden tears sprang to his eyes as his arm hung limply by his side.

He felt a hand wrap itself around his good wrist and he was yanked unceremoniously to his feet and propelled once more to the wall. As his head was slammed back to meet the brickwork behind him, his vision swam. The demon in front of him blurred and multiplied until he no longer knew which girl was real and which was just the result of a shaken brain. Her hand moved to rest on his chest and he felt his heart beat speed up, pounding faster and faster. He knew the agony rolling through his body, emanating from the sick warmth of her hand, was symptomatic of the damage being wrought to his innards and would likely kill him in minutes. He tried to call out for help. For Sam. For anybody.

Her face, suddenly up close and personal, filled his sight. Her eyes had reverted back to their unnatural ebony blackness but, in his disorientated, oxygen starved mind, her lips were the brightest scarlet he'd ever seen. She placed a gentle kiss on his face, licking blood off his cheekbone, running her free hand through his hair. Suddenly seizing his hair in a fierce and tortuous grip, she pulled his head back, exposing his throat. Running her tongue up his neck, she leaned in till her teeth caught his earlobe. She bit down, hard, drawing more blood. Blood Dean wasn't sure he could afford to lose.

As the last vestiges of consciousness left him, he heard her final words wash over him.

"Maybe we should have painted you, too."

* * *

**tbc**


	7. Chapter 7

Patching Dean up was an easier task than Sam had been anticipating. Under the blood, Dean's face was a myriad of scrapes and scratches but only one was in need of butterfly bandages. The bruises were inevitable and there was little Sam could do about them now. He'd applied an icepack to the worst lump at the back of his brother's head and one to his shoulder. The rainbow bruises on Dean's torso, front and back, were vicious looking and Sam couldn't help but wince in sympathy.

Deciding the best thing would be to let Dean rest, Sam silently set about cleaning the room of medical supplies and Dean's filthy clothing. He ruefully accepted that at some point in the not too distant future they would need a trip to a Laundromat, but it didn't rate high on his list of priorities at the moment.

Thinking back to the evening's events, he tried to think if anything that might give him a clue as to what had happened to his brother. Until Dean was back with him, all he could do was watch and wait. Dean was sleeping fitfully, shifting from time to time to give some relief to aching muscles and injured limbs. Sighing, Sam leant back on his own bed, ready to keep guard all night, if necessary.

*****

He didn't mean to fall asleep but when he opened his eyes, the sun was high in the sky and Dean's bed was empty. Groaning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sam gazed blearily round the room. The door to the bathroom was closed and now he thought about it, he could hear water running. Dean was obviously in no danger; he could stand down.

"Hey, Dean," he called, " you okay in there?" He didn't really expect an answer but felt he ought to at least try. The noise of water ceased and, from round the edge of the doorway, Dean's battered face appeared. Time hadn't been kind to it, not yet at any rate. A few of the scratches had faded but the bruises had blossomed and there were several smaller ones that hadn't shown up last night. The butterfly bandages were holding but Sam could tell Dean had been picking at them, probably while he was in the shower.

"Oh, dude. You're a sight for sore eyes." Sam couldn't help the comment that slipped out, regretting it instantly when Dean's face morphed into a scowl and he disappeared back into the bathroom. Sam slipped off the bed and padded over to the door. He knocked softly, "Dean, seriously, are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"I'm good, Sam," he replied, a little muffled through the door. "Just, gimme a minute would you."

A minute turned into two, turned into three and just as Sam was about to break down the door, Dean appeared, fully dressed, running fingers through wet hair. He stopped and looked around the room, then glared at Sam accusingly.

"Dude. No coffee?" he raised his eyebrows and waved his hands at the empty table and nightstand.

Sam snorted. "You really are okay now, aren't you," he sniped back at his brother, who had made his way into the room and was now heading back to the bed. Sam pretended not to notice the slight limp Dean seemed to have developed overnight or the way his arm hung heavily at his side. He knew Dean would deny any pain or injury and, all in all, he seemed to be functioning to an acceptable level. Sam decided no further nursing would be required for the moment.

Suppressing a groan as he sank back down on to the mattress, Dean looked across at his brother.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"Followed your dulcet tones."

"Huh." Dean seemed to think about that for a few minutes whilst studying his scraped knuckles, then looked up at Sam. "It was a demon," he told his brother softly.

Sam felt as though Dean had punched him in the gut. He hadn't been expecting demons. They'd had no indications of demons in the area, or anywhere, for several months now. He'd been considering witches, or ghosts, or even zombies, but not once had he thought demons might be involved. He'd spent months trying to forget the cause of Jessica's death but now Dean had rammed it home to him that there wasn't just one demon, but a whole legion of them and the fight was only just beginning.

Dean was studying his little brother carefully, watching a myriad of emotions cross his face. He had his own reasons for hating demons but Sam's reasons were a hundred times more recent and fresh in his memory. Their mother had died over 20 years ago, for Dean the pain had been dulled by time. Jessica had died just months ago. Times were when Dean didn't know how Sam managed to carry on at all. He watched as Sam pulled himself together.

"What did she say?" he asked, all business again.

"Not a lot. But then they never do. Said I wasn't wanted here," Dean's forehead creased as he struggled to remember what else had been said. The blow to his head had apparently knocked more than just sense out of him. "Something about painting me too." He shook his head. "I don't remember anything else. I was too busy being thrown around."

Sam nodded sagely. Dean had obviously told him everything he could recall from his encounter with the demon. "What about Chris?" he asked. "What did he have to say?"

The completely blank look on Dean's face would have been comical if Sam hadn't known it was caused by a concussion. For a second he worried that Dean's memory loss was more severe than either of them had thought and he hoped a trip to hospital wouldn't be necessary. Just as he was about to reach for the keys to the Impala, Dean snorted.

"He's weird," he stated. Sam just stared at his brother. He hadn't been expecting any great revelations but he had been hoping for something more than 'weird'.

"How d'you mean?" he asked. Dean furrowed his brow in excessive concentration as he tried to piece together the fragments of memory floating round his head.

"He said Elaine had been commissioned to paint him by some anonymous freak. He wigged out and told her to stop. End of story." He paused as a thought evaded him, skipping just out of reach. "But he was weird, man. Something was just…off." Dean looked at Sam in the hope he would understand what he was trying to say.

Sam shook his head. "So, we're back to square one," he concluded.

"Not quite," Dean grinned. "We know Elaine wasn't stalking you and we know demons are involved. I'd say we're on at least square four."

"Fine," Sam sighed. "What's square five, then?"

"Back to Elaine's." It was more of a question than a suggestion and Sam wasn't sure what they had to gain from it.

"Why? We've been there twice and all we got for our trouble was a flotilla of artist's knives. There was nothing there."

"Ah, but this time we know what we're looking for." Dean's triumphant look spoke volumes for his return to the game. Sam was happy to see colour returning to his cheeks and the spark back in his eyes. He knew Dean wasn't going to rest till he'd asked the question his brother was most likely waiting for.

Happy to oblige, Sam took a breath. "What? What are we looking for that we didn't find last time?"

"Think about it, Sammy. Elaine had been commissioned to do that painting. Chances are the sculpture of you was commissioned too." He broke off and stood up. Moving to his duffle he started to rummage through, stopping when he found what he was looking for before turning back to Sam. "Somewhere she must have had contact details. I'm no artist but surely that sort of thing takes time, can't be rushed."

Sam shrugged, unconvinced by Dean's line of thought. "But demons, Dean? They hardly leave a forwarding address."

"We don't know she was doing it for a demon."

"I think it's a fairly safe bet, dude. Why else would a demon go after you and why would she mention the paintings?"

"All the more reason to get back round there." Dean refused to let go of his plan.

"Fine," Sam huffed. "But we're not going to find anything there."

*****

Sam, though, was wrong.

The studio was much as they'd left it. Armed this time with bottles of turpentine to fling at any potential threat, the brothers scoured the room thoroughly. The knives they'd encountered on their previous visit lay harmlessly on the floor and showed no signs of wanting a rematch. After turning countless papers over, Sam was ready to pack up and move on. Only his brother's obstinacy held him back.

Stretching his arms above his head to work out several kinks that had taken up residence in his spine, his fingertips grazed the lightshade, setting it gently swaying to and fro. As he reached out to still its motion, Sam caught sight of a section of the ceiling that looked as though it had been recently touched up.

"Dean," he called. "Come here."

Dean looked up from where he was rummaging through yet another up turned drawer. "What've you found?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "It may be nothing but does that look … odd to you?" and he pointed to the patch of freshly painted ceiling.

Dean turned his eyes to the spot Sam indicated. Moving over to where his brother stood, he raised his eyebrows. "Think Elaine had a secret hiding place?" he queried.

"One way to find out." Sam hooked a foot round a stool a couple of inches away and pulled it over to him. He hopped up on to it, taking a couple of seconds to steady himself. The extra height easily put him within reach of the ceiling and he ran his fingers softly over the surface.

"Pass me a knife, Dean."

Taking the proffered instrument, Sam gently scraped the blade over the paintwork, turning his head so the flakes wouldn't fall in his eyes. He felt a little thrill of triumph when the knife caught in a slight indentation. Digging more thoroughly, and ignoring Dean's impatient huffs, he prised a sliver of paint off completely. There, underneath, was a plain white envelope. Teasing it away from its abode, Sam held it carefully in his hand as he jumped down from the stool. Giving Dean a meaningful look, he opened it and pulled out a piece of paper.

"Where's that list you found on Elaine?" he asked Dean once he had studied the contents of the envelope, his voice strangely detached. Dean gave him a worried look.

"Sam? What's it say?"

"Where's the list, Dean?" Sam repeated, deliberately ignoring the question. Dean reached into his back pocket and passed the item in question to his brother. He tried to ignore the slight tremble in Sam's hand as he took the paper.

Sam's eyes darted from one sheet to the other and back again. After several minutes, Dean couldn't take it any longer.

"Dude? Tell me what it is!"

"This is a list of names," Sam waved one sheet at Dean, "and this is the list of numbers you found earlier." He waved the other sheet. "The names on this sheet all have numbers next to them. These numbers." He waved the second sheet again for emphasis. Raising his eyes to Dean, the older brother was shocked to see residues of fear in his eyes. "Chris's name is on here. So is mine. So is Max Miller."

"Max Miller? What the hell is he doing on that list?" Dean snatched the sheet out of Sam's unresisting hand.

"Dean, you do realise what this means, don't you?"

"Yeah, I get it," Dean replied bitterly. "Someone was gathering together paintings and sculptures of people…like you."

"Explains why you thought Chris was 'weird'." Sam recovered himself. "Question is, though, who and why?"

* * *

**tbc**


	8. Chapter 8

The discovery of the list left Sam more shaken than he cared to admit. He'd been prepared for something unsavoury but to find he was targeted for his 'talents' was unsettling and worrying.

"We need to go pay Chris a visit," Dean decided for them both. Sam was clearly in no state to make a rational decision at the moment. Although he hid it well, Dean was always able to tell when he was troubled by something.

"Do you think he knows he has … skills?" Sam wondered.

"He's bound to," Dean snorted, "these things don't exactly keep themselves quiet, do they?" It was a rhetorical question and one Sam didn't feel inclined to answer anyway, but Dean did have a point. His visions were growing more vivid and brutal by the week and he was doing nothing to encourage them. Whatever Chris's particular gift was, chances were he'd known about it for some time. Sam only hoped he was able to control it.

*****

They found Chris in the Lounge Bar later that night. Dean was, understandably, slightly on edge. After scouring the dimly lit interior, he finally announced it safe territory and the two hunters made their way to the bar.

While Dean ordered a couple of beers and flirted half heartedly with the bartender, Sam cast his eyes around, searching for the man in question. He spotted him fairly quickly, sitting in a dark corner. Nudging Dean gently with his elbow, he slowly and carefully picked his way through the throng nestling within shouting distance of the bar.

Trusting Dean to be right behind him, Sam was surprised to see Chris was on his own and a good way through what looked like his third or fourth beer. He eased himself into the booth, sitting opposite the despondent looking man.

"Hey," he said, attracting Chris's attention.

"Hey," Chris responded, not sounding altogether happy, although with what, Sam didn't know.

"How's it going?" Sam tried to get the conversation started gently. Something had obviously upset Chris and he didn't want the guy to shut down on them completely.

"What's it to you?" The tone was trying to be belligerent but Sam doubted the man knew how to follow it through. He smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way.

"Sorry, just thought you looked like you could do with some company." Sam barely glanced at Dean as he settled himself beside his brother, sliding two beers onto the table, one for Sam and one for Chris. His own drink had apparently been left at the bar. Whether he had done that as a back up escape route, or to give him an excuse to get back to the bartender, Sam didn't know and didn't really care.

"Been stood up?" Dean smirked, ignoring the black look Sam threw in his direction. "been there, man. Sucks every time don't it. And," he sent a withering return glare in Sam's direction, "it don't get any better. They do it once, they'll do it again. Trust me, man, you're better off without her."

"She'll be here," Chris muttered, "she's just a little late."

"Oh yeah? How late? An hour? Two? Trust me, she ain't showing now."

Chris looked up at Dean properly for the first time. "And what would you know about it?" he demanded.

"Hey, touched a nerve. I'm sorry. Just saying what I see." Now that Dean was in the spotlight he ploughed on, regardless of Chris's emotional state. "We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions."

Dean pulled out the list of names they had found at Elaine's apartment and passed it over to Chris.

"Do you recognise any of those names?" he asked, watching the man for any give away signs on his face.

Chris studied the list briefly, pausing when his eyes fell upon his own name and Sam's. Then he held out the list to Dean and shook his head.

"You'd have to ask Hannah," he said.

"Hannah?" Dean was surprised by the answer.

"Yeah. It's her writing," Chris explained.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. You wanna check?" and he pulled out his wallet. From inside he extracted a piece of note paper and handed it over to Dean. It was an address, in the same writing. "Hannah moved apartments about two weeks ago. She wrote that in front of me. I just haven't got round to throwing it out yet."

Dean examined the note carefully. There was no doubt it was the same handwriting. He passed it over to Sam and took a long look at Chris.

"How long have you known Hannah?" he asked.

If Chris was surprised by the question, he didn't show it. "She moved here in December. She took the apartment next to mine. I had a big party for my birthday so I invited her over. You know – doing the neighbourly thing."

"Your birthday," Sam began, "how old were you?"

"I'm 23." Chris looked curious as the brothers cast a significant glance back and forth. "Is that important?"

"Oh yeah. It's important." Dean turned his head towards Sam and tilted his head to one side slightly, giving his brother the green light.

"Chris, this may seem an odd question but, please, just go with it for now. Your parents? Where are they?"

"They moved to the Sunshine State about four years ago. Why?"

"Both of them?" Sam persisted.

"Yeah…well she's my stepmom but she's been with my dad as long as I can remember."

"Where's your mom?" Dean interrupted.

Chris's eyes clouded over momentarily as he turned his attention to the older hunter. "She's dead."

"Chris, I know this is hard, but we need to know what happened to her." Sam held up his hand placatingly as Chris stared at him.

"Why?" his tone had changed and warning bells were sounding in Sam's head but he couldn't give up now.

"Did she die in a fire, Chris?" Chris's eyes flared up briefly before he stood abruptly and pushed himself away from the table. "It's okay, man. It happened to us too. I was six months old. I'm guessing you were a baby too."

Sam gave the man his most sympathetic look as Dean watched on in admiration. He would never figure how Sam managed to win people over with just a look and a few words. A minute ago Chris had been on the verge of storming out, now he was flicking his gaze between the two brothers, deciding whether to leave or have another beer. He was appraising Sam and Dean, weighing up whether to talk to them or not.

Decision made, he sat down again. "I was six months old too," he said and Dean couldn't help nodding in agreement. "There was a fire in our house, she perished. My dad never spoke about it much and he met Mom – Stephanie – a couple of years later. I was five when they married. She's the only mom I've ever known."

"Chris," Sam paused, not really knowing how to phrase his next question. "When you turned 23, did you notice anything … change about yourself?"

"Like what?" Chris gave Sam a puzzled look but Dean could tell it was only skin deep. The guy knew exactly what Sam meant but he didn't want to share. Dean couldn't really say he blamed him. These talents were unnatural and ungodly. Nobody asked for them and they probably scared the crap out of Chris. Hell, Sam still couldn't accept them and he dealt with the supernatural every day.

Sam seemed to feel the unease radiating from the man opposite him. "You're not alone, Chris," he began. "Our mom died when I was six months old too. In a fire. And I have…visions. Sometimes I see things that are going to happen. Bad things." He looked encouragingly at Chris. "Max Miller, one of the other guys on the list? He could move things with his mind." He stopped and sat back, picking up his beer and taking a swig, watching Chris over the top of the bottle. Both brothers could see the internal battle Chris was waging with himself. Just as Dean thought he was going to have to beat it out of the younger man, Chris leant forward.

"I thought I was going crazy," he confessed, voice so low it was a strain to hear him. "It was an accident the first time and then the second time…" he trailed off into a confused silence.

"What, Chris? What is it you can do?" Sam pressed.

"I can start fires. I think it, and it happens and it freaks the hell out of me."

"Does Hannah know about this?" Dean's question surprised Sam but Chris seemed unfazed by it.

"No, I haven't told a soul. Till now. It's not exactly something to brag about, is it? Do _you_ tell all and sundry?"

"Okay Chris, it's probably nothing but when you get home tonight, do me a favour. I want you to lay a line of salt around all your doors and windows and don't go out until you hear from us. Understand?" Dean's instructions garnered raised eyebrows from Chris who looked at him as though his head was spinning 360 degrees.

"Salt?" he sneered. "Are you serious?"

One look at Dean's expression though, told him how deadly serious the older hunter was. And Sam had a similarly taut look about him.

"I know it sounds crazy, dude," Sam accepted, "but look at what you can do with your mind. Trust us. We wouldn't ask you to do it if we didn't think you'd be safer that way."

"Safer? From what?" Chris's incredulity oozed through his very being. Dean was reaching the end of his tether too.

"Listen," he hissed. "Just do it. We'll be in touch soon. I promise."

*****

Once they were happy that Chris would follow their instructions, Sam and Dean left the bar, heading back to the Impala and then onto their motel. The drive was uneventful and Dean was doing the best he could to cover up a resurgence of his headache. The conversation with Chris had left him with an uncomfortable, niggling feeling he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He wasn't sure how Hannah fit into the picture but he was sure she was involved somehow. When they were safely ensconced in their room, he would put his theory to Sam but for now he needed his full concentration on the car and the drive. He could feel Sam glancing at him sideways every so often. He didn't want to admit any weakness, not even to his brother, but he just couldn't bring himself to start a conversation either, or continue the one that he just knew Sam was about launch into.

"Dean," and there it was. Dean could read Sam like an open book. He just grunted in reply, hoping Sam would take the hint. "You want me to drive?"

"I'm good, Sammy. We're nearly there."

And they were. Within five minutes, Dean had the car neatly parked outside their motel room and Sam was unloading the trunk. He hefted out their weapons bag, reflecting that perhaps it was time to clean some of them given that it had been a while since they'd used a few of the more specialist items. Dean was already in the room before he had slammed the trunk shut, none too gently.

Sam knew something was bothering Dean when no threats of harms or lessons on how to treat the Impala were yelled out of the room. He quickly joined his brother in the room, taken aback when Dean literally pushed him aside to get to the now closed door. Sam watched in bemusement as the other hunter made fast work of salting the door and all the windows. Finally, for good measure, he made a solid circle of salt around both beds.

"Dean?" Sam's quizzical tone of voice and raised eyebrows filtered through Dean's frenzied activity and he finally stopped, sinking onto his bed and looking up at Sam.

"There's something wrong here, Sam," he stated. "Chris can start fires, he didn't know about the painting, his girlfriend – who arrives just in time for his 23rd birthday – just _happens_ to find it and as soon as we show an interest, she's gone? There's something we're missing here, Sammy, and I'd bet my bottom dollar Hannah knows what it is."

"You think she's the one who commissioned the artwork?"

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't know. But she's definitely involved in this somehow." He lay back on the bed and Sam couldn't help but worry how tired his brother looked.

"Let's get some rest," he suggested. "We'll figure it out in the morning."

*****


	9. Chapter 9

Sam wasn't really sure how they had wound up loitering outside Hannah's apartment block at 5am. Dean had assured him it was necessary and that he had a game plan but, looking at his brother leaning heavily against the wall, Sam wasn't convinced he was thinking straight yet. When Dean had shaken him from a dreamless sleep, Sam had been less than responsive to the older man's latest theory. It had been several weeks since Sam had managed more than four hours uninterrupted sleep and Dean's sudden enthusiasm for rising early was unwelcome in the extreme. He sighed dramatically and looked over at his brother once more.

"Remind me again why we're here?"

"Dude." It was more of a whine than Dean was aiming for but the implication was there. He had explained his theory to Sam in the motel and again in the car on the way over. Sam had raised his eyebrows, more in appreciation of the fact Dean had remembered the girl's address from his brief glimpse at the note Chris had shown, than in true exasperation. "Hannah's involved in this, Sam. I just know she is. And the only way to prove it is to get in there."

"But why now? Why in the middle of the night? She's more likely to be out during the day."

Dean just turned and smirked at Sam. He had no good reason for being here at this ridiculous hour and, if push came to shove, he'd admit Sam had a valid point. Chances were Hannah was tucked up in bed, fast asleep and the brothers' presence here was probably a colossal waste of time. But here they were, and here they were staying until Dean had scratched this particular itch.

"Sam. Just go with me on this one, okay? Please?"

"A witch though, Dean? Really?"

"Why not? Think about it, Sammy…"

"But Dean, you were attacked by a demon, not a witch. Totally different things."

"And where do witches get their power from?"

It was tempting not to answer, but Sam knew Dean would be even more insufferable if he didn't. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the smug look on Dean's too pale face as he answered.

"From dark magic and satanic rituals."

"Exactly! Satanic rituals. Are you telling me there's no possibility they're mixed up in this together?"

"We've never seen it."

"We've never seen a lot of things. Doesn't mean they don't exist." And with that, Dean turned his attention back to the apartment block they were staking out.

"And we're here why, exactly?" Sam pressed. He could see Dean stifle a sigh as he threw his brother a look that would freeze hell itself.

"Because we need to get in there and check it out."

"Couldn't we have done that in the daytime?" Sam was cold and tired and his arm was starting to ache. He just couldn't resist pushing all the right buttons, fully aware they'd had this very conversation not five minutes ago. Dean just turned to his brother with a smirk.

"Could have done," he replied, "but where's the fun in that?"

Just as Sam was about to reply with a scathing barb about Dean and his definition of 'fun' he was distracted by a light going on in Hannah's apartment. Both Winchesters turned as one, just in time to see a silhouetted figure cross in front of what they assumed was the bedroom window.

It was clearly a woman but she was hunched over and shuffled slowly from one side to the other. They watched as she disappeared out of few, only for another figure to cross back, just moments later. This time there was no mistaking Hannah's distinctive outline in the window. Sam and Dean exchanged glances, Dean raising his eyebrows in silent question.

"Her grandma?" Sam suggested, although he didn't believe it for a second. "An aged aunt?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm guessing that's Hannah's alter ego." he stated and leant back against the wall, letting the dampness of the early morning seep through his jacket.

The apartment was plunged into darkness again and it was a safe assumption Hannah had moved to the rooms on the other side of the block. Less than ten minutes later the main door to the block opened and the Hannah they knew walked briskly out, head held high, clearly on a mission of some sort.

Sam knew Dean was torn between following the girl and taking the opportunity to check out her apartment. He could almost see the cogs whirring in his brother's head as his eyes flitted from the apartment to the woman's receding figure and back again.

"Go." he relented. "I'll see what she's hiding in there, you go see where she's off to."

Dean hesitated. He didn't want to lose the chance to prove he was right. He was convinced something in Hannah's home would have all the answers they were looking for, but he was riven with curiosity at the same time. She must have some pretty wacky plans to be out this early in the morning.

But he wasn't keen on separating from Sam. He wasn't so worried for himself, although if he were totally honest with himself he'd have to admit to not being at his best, but he had an ingrained fear of something happening to his little brother. It was irrational and ridiculous. He knew better than most how capable Sam was of looking after himself, knew how much damage he could inflict if necessary.

After what seemed an age, he nodded at Sam and pushed himself away from the wall. "Be careful, Sammy." he instructed.

"You too," Sam replied, watching as Dean sauntered casually down the street after Hannah. He suddenly wondered if he had sent the older hunter on the right mission. He hoped Dean would just watch and listen, not get involved in anything other than observation. It was a vain hope but his brother wasn't fully recovered yet, however much he tried to convince Sam otherwise.

Taking a deep breath and recognising his brother's stubbornness for what it was, Sam made his way over the road to the apartment. Gaining entry was easy for someone with his particular set of skills and it didn't take a genius to work out which apartment was Hannah's.

Silently letting himself in, Sam groped in his pocket for a flashlight. Flicking it on revealed a tastefully decorated hallway leading to several different rooms. Pushing open the first door to his right, Sam found himself in the living area. A quick look around revealed nothing and, with some reluctance, Sam returned to the hallway and the door leading to Hannah's bedroom.

Moving over the threshold, feeling a little bit like a stalker, Sam cast his eyes over the room. There was nothing extraordinary about the room but the bookshelf in the corner seemed somehow out of place to the hunter. He'd had piles of books when he'd been at Stanford but he'd always kept them out of the bedroom. Mostly, he had to admit, because Jessica had refused to have them in there. She'd said it didn't make for a restful room and she needed somewhere to get away from her studies.

Perusing the books, Sam wasn't entirely surprised to see the collection consisted mostly of ancient Greek and Latin texts, along with one or two spell books. He considered letting Dean know of his find, flipping his cell phone open with one hand while running a finger along the spines of the old books.

He had just brought his brother's name up on the screen and was about to hit send when a noise from the living area caught his attention. Snapping the phone closed Sam edged to the door, keeping close to the wall. Pulling his gun from its home nestled at his back, he closed his eyes briefly, concentrating on the noise coming from the room. He could hear footsteps and papers being shuffled.

He frowned. The noises didn't sound like someone who knew what they were looking for and there was too much noise for the intruder to be a professional. Deciding he probably had the advantage over whoever else was in the apartment, Sam swung round into the passageway and stopped, gun raised, in the doorway to the living room.

"Hold it right there," he commanded the figure currently browsing through Hannah's phone book. Hands were instantly raised and the man turned slowly.

"Please don't hurt me." he stammered and lifted frightened eyes to Sam's face. The recognition was instantaneous for both men.

"Chris?"

"Sam?"

*****

Dean followed Hannah from a distance, admiring the way her hips swayed as she walked and her hair danced in the breeze. She showed no awareness of the hunter behind her and Dean gave himself a mental pat on the back for his stealth. She didn't rush, but she was no slouch either. Dean found himself having to speed up a little every time she turned a corner in case she disappeared from view.

Eventually Hannah stopped outside the Lounge Bar. Dean ducked into a shop doorway to avoid detection and watched curiously as she took a view of the street before knocking at the door. A few moments later the door opened although Dean couldn't see who had answered. The light from within shadowed the figure at the entrance. A brief conversation took place and then Hannah slipped past into the interior of the club.

Waiting for the door to close, Dean made his way back onto the street. If challenged, he reasoned, he could say he was just passing. There was no reason for him not to be there, after all. Briefly trying the door, he ascertained it was locked from the inside and he would need to find another way in if he wanted to find out what Hannah was doing there.

The back of the club offered more opportunities and a small window afforded Dean an easy way into the building. As it turned out he landed in a cleaning cupboard, locked from the outside. He grinned. A cleaning cupboard had never held him back before and it wasn't going to be a drawback now.

Easily manipulating the lock, Dean slipped through the door, finding himself in a darkened service hallway which clearly ran behind the main bar. Taking a minute to orientate himself, Dean decided to head to where he assumed the offices were. Moving quietly along the corridor, his ears picked up the sound of voices coming from round the corner up ahead.

Pushing himself into the wall, he edged towards the end of the passageway. Taking a careful look round the corner he could just make out Hannah and a burly man engaged in a hissed conversation, one he couldn't quite hear the words to. Wondering whether to risk getting a bit nearer, the hunter decided it was probably worth it. Hannah and her companion were totally caught up in whatever their discussion was about.

Sliding round the corner, Dean took advantage of a convenient pile of cardboard boxes stacked up beside an office door. Clearly someone was on the move as the boxes were full of stationery and files. Peeking round from the safety of his cover, he watched with interest as Hannah opened her purse and withdrew a small package. She turned it over in her hand a couple of times before handing it over to the man in front of her.

Then she turned and smiled in Dean's direction.

"I know you're there," she called and Dean's blood froze. He had been so careful. Taking a deep breath, he pressed himself back into the wall. Maybe she was bluffing, he thought. Maybe she finished all her meetings like this.

Hope was quickly dashed when the sound of a rock guitar riff emitted from his jacket pocket and he cursed himself for not switching it to silent before entering the room. He banged his head against the wall in frustration as the giant Hannah had been with moved with a speed and grace he hadn't been expecting. Before Dean even had the chance to get his gun out, the man had him by the throat and was forcing his head back even further.

"What have we here?" he growled with a sneer. If the situation hadn't been so serious, Dean would have found the comment funny. It reminded him of the Daddy Bear in Goldilocks, although he would never admit to the analogy. Fumbling behind him for his weapon, he flailed at the guy uselessly with his other hand. Feeling his hand being grabbed before he was able to make contact with the man's face, he lashed out with a foot, desperately trying to break loose.

The man laughed, and distantly Dean could hear Hannah's heels clicking on the floor.

"Don't kill him, Simon," she instructed. "I can use him," and she turned swiftly on the spot and walked away.

Fingers finally coming into contact with his gun, Dean brought his arm up forcefully, only to have the gun ripped from his hand and thrown across the floor. The pressure on his throat increased and breathing rapidly became a priority. Diverting his efforts from trying to kill Simon to simply trying to stay conscious, Dean brought both hands to the arm across his neck, scrabbling with increasing feebleness. The face in front of him began to lose clarity and, as the edges of his vision became shrouded in gray, Dean wondered briefly who had been on the phone.

* * *

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

Sam dropped his hold on the gun in his hand, letting it fall to his side.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked the young man in front of him. "I thought we told you to stay put."

Chris looked up sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd come talk to Hannah," he admitted. "But I saw her leave and you coming up and I just thought…"

"You thought what?" Sam interrupted. "You thought you'd come and get yourself killed? Is that it?" He couldn't help it – he was infuriated by the sheer stupidity of the other man's actions. Okay, so technically he was only following Sam's lead, but Sam had years of experience in this kind of thing. Chris was still getting to grips with being a firestarter. The two men were worlds apart when it came to breaking and entering.

Sam's outburst seemed to do the trick. Chris looked suitably chastised and Sam was half expecting him to start toeing the carpet any minute now. Then suddenly he looked up again.

"I need to know what's going on," he burst out, "and you and your brother weren't going to tell me. If Hannah's up to something involving me, then I have a right to know. You can't stand there and tell me you wouldn't do the same thing."

Chris's statement, as sudden and heartfelt as it was, did little to appease Sam's anger. Yes, he could understand where Chris was coming from but he didn't have the time to spend babysitting the supernaturally uninitiated. Sighing he motioned Chris over to the sofa.

Joining the other man, he stopped to look out of the window. There was no sign of Hannah, or Dean, and while he wasn't worried yet, he didn't want Hannah to return and disturb them. Trusting his brother to have put his phone on silent, he decided to quickly appraise him of the situation back at the apartment. Calling the older hunter, he was slightly perturbed when it rang and then went to voicemail. Trying to shake the voice at the back of his head reminding him of what had happened last time he got Dean's voicemail, he left a brief message, telling Dean to let him know when Hannah was headed back in his direction.

Turning away from the window, Sam realised Chris was looking up at him expectantly. He took a deep breath and came to a decision. He had to give the man something, telling him so little had proved to be a mistake so far. Sam perched himself on the arm of a chair where he had a good view of the street and Chris.

"We think Hannah's involved in this somehow," he began, holding up his hand to stave off the impending interruption he could feel coming from the sofa. "We don't know how and we don't know why. But we think she's dangerous which is why we told you to stay put."

"How can she be dangerous?" Chris scoffed. "She's a tiny little thing, or haven't you noticed?"

"She's not what you think," Sam replied, wondering how much of Dean's theory to share with him. He didn't have any irrefutable proof yet that Hannah was a witch but he was beginning to agree with his brother.

"What is she then? A man?"

"Chris," Sam tried to put himself in the other man's shoes. "You know there are things out there we can't really explain. You're a firestarter, I have visions. Hannah has other powers. She's the one who commissioned your portrait from Elaine. She's the one that wrote the list of names of people Elaine was painting or whatever. She's in this up to her neck. And until Dean and I can stop her, you need to steer clear of her. Do you understand?"

Chris still looked sceptical and Sam couldn't say he blamed the guy. He'd just come clean about his weird, freaky powers and now here were two complete strangers telling him his sometime girlfriend had supernatural powers of her own and was potentially a danger to him. He studied Sam closely and Sam found himself shifting from side to side. After what seemed an age, Chris stood up.

"I still think you're crazy," he commented. "You and your brother. I'm not going to go out of my way to avoid Hannah, but I won't call her if it'll make you happy." He pushed past Sam on his way to the door. With one hand resting on the door, he paused and turned back to Sam, a contemplative expression on his face. "How do you control your visions?" he asked.

Sam was taken aback by the question and had no good answer for it, even if he had been prepared. "I don't," he admitted. "I have no idea when or where they're going to happen. I'm sorry, Chris, but I really don't know how to control any of it. I guess you're just going to have to try your best." He gave a helpless shrug, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny of the other man. Chris simply nodded and turned away from him, opening the door and slipping out of the apartment and Sam's sight.

Sighing, Sam returned to the living room and the window. The sun was rising in the sky and the streetlights were turning off, leaving the world bathed in a soft golden glow. Wondering where Hannah had gone to, Sam debated whether to call his brother again or not. Deciding against it for the moment, he picked up the phone book Chris had been looking at when Sam interrupted him. Flipping it open at a random page Sam recognised the writing instantly. Scanning down the list of names and addresses, nothing jumped out at him and, frustrated, he slammed the book closed, replacing it where he thought it probably lived.

Coming to the conclusion there was nothing to be found in the living room, or anything further of interest in the bedroom, Sam decided to take a quick look in the kitchen while he still, apparently, had time. Pulling open drawers and cupboards quickly and efficiently, it was easy to see that Hannah was a girl who liked to eat out a lot. There were various packets of dried food and cereal, a carton of milk and some juice but not much else.

Pulling open what turned out to be the cutlery drawer, Sam froze. Caught at the very back of the drawer, behind the knives, was a fabric pouch. At first Sam thought it was a hex bag, but commonsense told him a witch wouldn't have one of those in her kitchen. Tentatively taking it in his hand, he turned it over until he found a small zipper. Opening it slowly, he took a look. The opening, however, was too small for him to see anything so he gingerly put one finger inside.

The contents of the bag were soft and, to Sam's great relief, dry. He wondered if he could identify the contents without emptying the entire bag but it was such a small pouch it seemed impossible. Casting his eyes round the kitchen, he found a small plate onto which he poured the contents.

Any other person would have just accepted the collection of herbs as a poultice or drawer freshener. Sam wasn't any other person though, and he instantly recognised the assortment of hemlock, wolfsbane and belladonna along with a couple of leaves he had never seen before. Poking the leaves cautiously with one finger, he shook his head slowly. It seemed Dean's insistence that Hannah was a witch was on the mark. The herbs in front of him easily lent weight to his brother's assertion.

Carefully refilling and replacing the pouch, Sam decided he'd learned everything he was going to from Hannah's place. What he needed now was to confer with Dean and form a new plan of action. His brother still hadn't returned his call and he was becoming a little anxious.

Letting himself out of the apartment, Sam made his way back to the alleyway where they had based themselves to spy on the girl. Taking his phone one more time, he redialled the last number, Dean's, and waited for it to connect. Half expecting it to go to voicemail once more, Sam was more than a little surprised when a voice answered on the second ring.

"Sam?"

"Where's Dean?" Sam was on instant alert. Dean rarely left his phone anywhere other than on his person intentionally.

"Dean can't come to the phone right now, Sam. Maybe you'd like to speak to him in person?"

"Who is this?" Sam demanded, back ramrod straight, muscles tight. He was regretting letting his brother out of his sight and mentally cursing Dean for not staying out of trouble. Because he had no doubt that's where the older hunter was – slap bang in the middle of trouble.

"Come down to the Lounge Club and find out," the voice taunted him. "I'm sure Dean will be delighted to see you."

"If you've hurt him…" Sam began, but he was talking to a dial tone before he even got to the end of the sentence, leaving him staring stupidly at his cell. His brain had been thrown into confusion. He slumped back against the wall, watching the street coming to life with the passing time. Dean had been following Hannah and while the voice hadn't been hers, he felt it in his bones that she was behind his brother's disappearance. What he couldn't understand was why would they take Dean? It was his name on the list, his face in Elaine's sketches. There was nothing to be gained by taking Dean.

Except his cooperation he realised with a jolt. They knew, and he knew, he wouldn't leave his brother to suffer if he could do something to stop it. They would be expecting him to come to the rescue, be a knight a shining armour, and snatch his brother out from under their noses.

There would be very little chance of snatching Dean away from witches and demons, though Sam thought wryly. Putting himself in his brother's shoes for a moment, he wondered what advice Dean would be giving right now.

_Get the hell out of here_ probably, Sam mused. It wasn't helpful and it didn't ease his sense of betrayal as he headed back to the Impala and the motel room, somewhere to get his head round the morning's events and plan his strategy for getting his brother back in one piece.

*****

Forcing his eyes to open just a sliver, Dean gradually became aware of a chill seeping through his body, originating from his feet. Confused, he gave an experimental wiggle of his toes which met no resistance from the toecap of his boots. The information took a few seconds to filter through his muddled mind but he finally realised his boots had been removed and the cold was creeping through his socks and into his bones, working its way up from his feet to the very centre of his body.

Automatically trying to reach down to rub some warmth into his body, Dean discovered with some dismay but, on reflection, not much surprise, that his wrists were bound tightly together behind his back with plastic ties. He gave them a couple of sharp yanks to test the strength of the fastenings, grimacing when the only result was an acute pain in both wrists and a burning sensation on his skin.

Resigning himself to the fact he was clearly not going anywhere in a hurry, he coerced his eyes into a fully open position and raised his head as far off the floor as he could. In the gloom he could just make out some stacked boxes and what appeared to be a couple of filing cabinets. He guessed the rectangular shadow by the wall was a desk and it didn't take a genius to work out he had been abandoned in a deserted office of the Lounge Club.

Letting his head drop back down to the carpet, hope flared briefly when his cell phone suddenly came to life, filling the office with its musically debatable ringtone. Immediately rolling on his side, trying to pinpoint his phone's location, he realised with alarm that he hadn't been abandoned after all. His phone fell silent amid the sound of footsteps.

He recognised the voice that spoke his brother's name as belonging to the man Hannah had been conducting her business with. Listening to the conversation, he willed Sam to keep his cool and, above all, to keep away.

Dean watched with contempt as Simon moved into his line of vision and snapped the cell phone closed.

"He won't fall for that," he assured the man with a scowl. "He's not stupid."

"Of course he won't," Simon agreed, a cold smile on his face. "That's what we're counting on." As he spoke, he advanced on Dean, who felt at a decided disadvantage from his position on the floor.

Ignoring the ball of ice forming in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't stop the flash of confusion crossing his face. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Simon, however, didn't seem to be in the mood to answer Dean's questions. Instead, he stopped at Dean's head and dropped to a crouch, eyes burning into Dean's. Reaching out, he grasped hold of the younger man's chin, forcing his head up and back until Dean thought he meant to break his neck. Leaning forward, he smirked.

"I wouldn't worry about your brother, if I were you," he advised. "You should worry about yourself."

* * *

tbc


End file.
